The Last Thorn
by 6Phantom6
Summary: Based on the early-2000 toon, and it is out of universe; No superpowers. The director has been murdered so its up to our favorite man Bruce to run this play and solve a mystery or two. Can he figure out the answers before he ends up in a pine box? Can he keep his sanity throughout the production? Who knows? Please forgive me when this gets confusing and off the rails.
1. Our Story Begins

First off, I only watch the early-2000's cartoon. So save your breath if you want to correct me comic book wise. Second, let's set up the scene; takes place beyond superheroes and supervillians. Everybody's a normal person; so don't expect anyone to start flying. Third, I know it's short for a play staff, but hey. I've seen things accomplished with fewer people. I know its not gonna make sense, but this is what happens when you shove your head in a cannon and someone lights the fuse.

I don't own the characters or the concept of a murder mystery. You can say this is inspired by the film, "Talking Head". If you don't know what the film is, I don't blame you; can't even find it online. Please don't kill me, and I hope you enjoy.

/

An ebony-haired man was sitting at the train station, drumming his fingers on his knee as the scenery around him constantly changed. There was a paper beside him, the headline reading in bold, "Director Found Dead in Theater!". He was tempted to pick it up; at least take a quick skim at the story. His free hand crawled to the paper, but something stopped him mid-crawl.

"Hey! Are you Bruce?"

The man looked to the source to see someone standing next to him. Wearing a pair of slacks, a white shirt and red tie, and a pair of thick glasses, Bruce considered the stranger to be a dork. "Yes, I am." He answered, "Are you from the theater?"

"Yeah!" The dork answered, "I'm Clark Kent; Assistant Manager. I'm glad that you came at our request! You have no idea how hard it became after our old director died. All the actors fled the theater and wouldn't return my calls. No one would fill in to be our Director, well except you, of course."

"Just take to the theater." Bruce said as he gathered his items, "The sooner we get there, the sooner we can work on this play; how long until the play debuts?"

"Well…" Clark began as the two walked to the entrance, "We don't go on for four weeks. But there have been some…setbacks."

"Such as?" He asked.

"We have no script, no music, no props, no scenery, and no costumes." Clark explained, "Just before our original director died, everything was either destroyed or went missing. We have to do everything from the ground up." Bruce glared at him, making the other man hold up his hands, saying, "I'm sorry, if we told you, you wouldn't take the job!"

"So I'm working on a play that has nothing," Bruce began as the two waited for a taxi, "And you expect this thing to go on in four weeks? Are you insane?"

"No," Clark answered, "Just hopeful. If you're gonna leave, I understand."

"I'm not leaving," Bruce answered, "I'm just saying tell me details like this before hand. But this is going to be an interesting situation." A taxi cab pulled up to them and the duo entered, the car taking off the second the back door was shut.

"I hope you don't mind me asking," Clark began, "But why did you take this position? I mean, with the murder and all that…"

"It just seems interesting," Bruce answered, "What play would cause death to its director?"

"Well, the play we're doing is an original," The other man explained, "It's called _The Last Thorn_. We all agreed that it is a suspense drama."

"At least it's not _Macbeth._" The new director muttered, "But what to you want me to do? Since there are no actors, what is there to do?"

"Get us up and running again." Clark stated, "Pick up the pieces and start again. Get the actors back, and everything will go back to normal."

"Okay, so who am I working with, besides you?" Bruce asked.

"Just a bunch of freaks." Clark answered.

/

Later, the two were standing in front of the theater. Many posters were plastered on the bulletin boards, some fluttering in the slight breeze. The paint was chipping to the point where large chunks were missing. There were remnants of police tape on the front door, yellow plastic bits still stuck to the surface. A single word was spray painted on the side, reading, "_Losers!_". "Not a very well kept theater, is it?" Bruce asked as he kicked a stray cup away.

"It's all we could afford," Clark said as he smoothed out a poster, "Besides, it was either that or the theater by the river." Clark took out a key ring and flipped around until he found the right key. As the key slid into the keyhole, he informed, "Just a precaution, I wouldn't stare too long; they've been on edge for a while."

The door opened and the two walked in. The lobby was about the same; posters barely hanging onto their thumbtacks, dusty furniture, a broken vending machine, and a few pieces of police tape left behind. The duo continued walking, heading straight to a set of double doors. As the two walked through, Bruce felt an uneasy air hit him. He huffed out a breath as he looked around the theater before setting his gaze on the stage.

Five persons were staring at the two as Clark announced, "Good news everyone! We have a new director; everyone welcome Mr. Bruce Wayne!" The five only stared coldly at Bruce, the latter staring back with mutuality. Clark only cleared his throat nervously as he said, "Well, enough nervousness; let's get back to work!" The five only grunted and departed, leaving the duo alone.

"Guess they don't like me." Bruce muttered as the two stepped onto the stage.

"Nah," Clark assured, "They're still a little shaky from the accident. They'll warm up once they get to know you. Come on, I'll show you to your office." As the two climbed on the stage, Bruce couldn't help that some of the set pieces looked a little worn, if not old. The duo walked behind the curtain and squeezed through the corridor until they reached backstage, a door marked 'Manager' standing out due to a red handprint underneath the frosted glass. "I guess someone didn't clean that off," Clark said as he rushed over and fumbled with his keys, "I am so sorry! I pretty sure this is only paint, but again, I am sorry!"

"Quit saying that," Bruce said as Clark opened the door, "It's not like you did it. It was probably one of the actors." The two stepped inside and Bruce began to regret taking up the position. The walls were dingy with spots of either mold or ink covering the flaking paint job. The furniture looked ancient and ruined; a worn desk with doodles on the surface of all shape and colors, a rusted filling cabinet, an old cot with a depressed middle, a vinyl chair with patches of fluff poking out, and a plant pot with its contents dried out and dead.

"Pretty old office, isn't it?" Bruce asked as he cautiously sat down.

"This place hasn't been cleaned up in a while," Clark nervously said, "As I said, it's all we could afford."

"I'll work with it." The other man sighed as he turned his attention to the desk, "So, do you want to introduce me to everyone personally, or should I do that myself?"

"Well, you'll have to interact with everyone eventually," Clark said, "Voice your opinion and offer constructive criticism; keep everyone's spirits up while you're at it. We all know what the play is about; we just have to remake everything again."

"Well, what is this play about anyway?" Bruce asked.

"I guess it's some sort of murder plot…" Clark answered.

/

To be continued...


	2. Yimmer Yammer Nail and Hammer

And here's where the train runs off it's rails. Forgive me for OOC-ness; nothing extreme but still.

I own nothing and regret nothing. Enjoy.

/

Later, Bruce decided to work on his own to meet everyone personally. Currently, he was watching as a young man with red hair was carefully sewing up a dress on the manikin. Beside him, a woman with long, red hair and a black man with a shaved head were trying to figure out how to make a certain prop. "Keep staring and your eyes will fall out." The woman stated.

"Forgive me," Bruce apologized, "I was trying to figure out who I'm working with."

The woman glared at him, then began to point to everyone. "That kid is Wally West," she explained, "In charge of costume, hair and make-up." She then pointed to her partner, "He's John Stewart; Set designer." She pointed at herself, "Shayera Hol; Prop designer."

"Nice to meet all of you." The director said.

"Feeling's mutual pal," Wally answered, "If I were you, I'd bolt."

"But you're not," Bruce countered, "So I'm staying."

"You gotta have some serious guts pal," John commented, "That, or you lost a bet."

"I was interested in the directors' position," He defended, "And I would like to help you out. Speaking of which, what was your previous director like?"

"An asshole." Shayera commented.

"A loon." Wally said.

"A fool." John answered.

"How so?" Bruce asked.

"Everything was fine when we first started," She began, "He understood when we couldn't make it, when we needed a break. He was a nice guy; kinda good looking too."

"Then he went bonkers." Wally interrupted, "He kept saying that he was going to make a play like no other. One beyond the concept of costumes, props, and set. Heck, the guy tried to cut out the music. He would spend hours in his office babbling about who knows what."

"Then he became a jerk." John continued, "He would yell at us for anything and everything. What we did do, what we didn't do, what we have and didn't have; he chewed the script writer out for having tuna for lunch!"

"And then one day," Bruce finished, "You all found him hanging from a balcony. Any of you miss him?"

"Feelings are mixed," Wally answered, "Some were sad, some were frightened, and some were glad. I ain't telling who felt what because it's none of your business. Why are you asking anyway? Are you a detective or something!?"

"No, just curious." The director defended, "I have to ask questions anyway; with everything destroyed and all."

"Sometimes I think that it was a good idea to destroy everything," John said, "This play was destined to bomb anyway. Every single day, that moron came up with new changes. It drove all of us crazy."

"Why did you sign up for this play anyway?" Bruce asked.

"The three of us joined because we were all bored and wanted the money." Shayera answered, "What do you think?"

"Probably the same reason." Bruce answered before walking away.

"Hold it!" Wally said.

"What now?" The director asked.

"I just want your opinion on something!" The young man stated, "Do you think that it's possible to do all that?"

"Put on a play without costumes, props or sets?" Bruce asked.

"Yes!" He said.

"I don't really know." The older man answered, "Doesn't really feel right. A play without all that."

"Music can set the mood." John pointed out, "Certain music can bring a person to their knees crying."

"Other types of music can make you angry." Shayera joined in, "But then again, is this a part of homo-sapiens' mentality?"

"Mob mind, right?" Wally asked.

"No." John answered.

"Look, where are you going with this?" Bruce asked.

"Where this is going is to answer a question." The young man asked, "Can you set the mood without props, sets, and costume?"

"There are such things like mood lighting." The woman pointed out, "Certain light coloring, and intensity can convey certain emotions and periods of time."

"But light and music can't convey places or periods of time!" Bruce interjected.

"Sure they can," John argued, "If somehow a person can recreate old music, or create lighting that display indoors or outdoors, then it can be accomplished."

"Why are you even talking about this?" The director asked, "If a play can convey places and time, then you would be out of the job!"

"We would," John admitted, "But people are always cutting corners. Trying to cut out the middle man, all for the sake of money."

"But then again, is it possible to cut us out?" Wally asked, "Don't get me wrong, but I think the general public has become quite unimaginative."

"How so?" Bruce asked.

"Look at today's modern art." Shayera answered, "I don't know if the artists don't have the effort to really create something wonderful, or if they are really empty inside."

"Listen to the music of this era." Wally explained, "The same subjects used over and over."

"Watch the movies out in the theater." John said, "Don't you notice that people depend on such things like SFX, sequels, or the same scenarios and actions?"

"There's not much originality in the world these days," She uttered, "We are so dependent on what is considered safe. There's barely any effort."

"No imagination," The younger man added, "Same thing repeated. It's safe, but it's boring."

"We just hand it to them," The set designer uttered, "Like a damn picture book."

"It's terrible, right?" The trio asked.

"I don't know." Bruce answered, "But are you going to quit?"

"Nah." The trio answered, "We're bored and we need money."

"Alright," The director said, "Well, I better check up on the others."

"Cool." Wally answered.

"Ok." Shayera said.

"Are you going to check on the script writer or the composer?" John asked.

"Which is worse?" Bruce asked.

"Depends on the day." The trio answered.

/

To be continued.


	3. A Genius or a Madman?

Forgive me for OOC-ness; pretty damn extreme. Shouldn't happen, but did. And if any of you start crying as to why Aquaman isn't filling the role, cry somewhere else. And be glad; the future is nasty.

I own nothing and regret nothing. Enjoy.

/

After a few minutes, Bruce was standing outside the composer's room. But his hand hovered over the doorknob as he heard something inside. Someone was shouting at the top of his lungs, the sounds of paper being thrown and furniture being toppled accompanying. Bruce turned the knob, but found it locked. "Hey, are you okay in there?" he asked as he pounded at the door, but the cacophony symphony continued behind the frosted glass. Fearing the worst, Bruce began to ram against the door until it gave way, sending the young man into what should be a disaster area.

It was, with paper and books strewn over the floor, music stands and several instruments knocked over, and the piano bench far away from the piano, broken in half on the other side of the room. In the middle of this chaos was a man with blonde hair about to throw a stool out the window. "To hell with this!" he screamed, but Bruce tackled him before he could cause any more damage.

"Calm down!" he commanded as the two struggled on the floor, "Take it easy! SNAP OUT OF IT!" The other complied as the frantic movements ceased, all returning to peace. "Are you okay?" Bruce asked the other as the two separated.

"Yes." The man replied as they got off the floor, "Forgive me for that performance. You are the replacement director, correct?"

"Yeah," he answered, "Bruce Wayne. And you?"

"John Jones," he introduced, "Composer and conductor. But most people just call me the Composer; clears the confusion a tad."

"Alright," the director said, "Why were you freaking out earlier?" John swallowed as he smoothed his hair, refusing to make eye contact.

"It's a long story," he explained, "I guess I'm a little stressed."

"I don't blame you." Bruce said, "You, and probably the scriptwriter must be swamped." John only glared at him, almost looking inhuman.

"You have no idea." He growled, "Countless nights spent writing that music, and it takes only a few minutes to disappear! WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!"

"John!" Bruce said as he slapped the other man, "Take it easy…Sorry for touching some nerves there."

"No, I should be apologizing." The composer sighed, "I shouldn't be snapping like this; not at all. It is not professional at all to act in such a way, even for a small play."

"Why don't you just quit if it bothers you that much?" The director asked, "Freaking out like that isn't good for your health."

"You mean not good for the public image," John said as he set the stool near the piano, "Acting in such a way could only bring negative views on our little group. I don't even know why the old director hired me."

"Did he know that you would have meltdowns?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," He answered, "But back then, I had it under control. Back then, he would allow me to take breaks when needed. He would even try to make me go on breaks when I've been working for too long. He treated me like a cherished brother."

"That is until he changed, right?" Bruce asked.

"Yes." The other man hissed, "Demands for different sounding music; music that has never been composed at all. He asked for sounds that would rattle the gods themselves! Sounds that no human could comprehend!

"And when he died," The director asked, "How did you feel?"

"Stressed, yet again." John answered, "When he died, he took the music with him. Now I have to write every single note and hope it is correct. I've been writing and hoping for four days and three nights."

"Well, if you need a break,-" But Bruce was interrupted when John slammed his hands down on the keys, causing a thunderous noise to blare from the piano.

"There's no time for breaks!" He yelled, "With four weeks left, who has time for a break?! I must write the damn music for a bunch of morons that haven't held an instrument in their entire life! If I slack off, then I'll be blamed for when the whole damn thing fails on opening night! I will be blamed for every single damn thing that happens in everyone else's life!"

"That's not true!" Bruce argued, "John, please be rational!" John held his arms up, ready to slam down on the piano again.

"Try telling Ludwig van Beethoven to be rational." He uttered as his hands fell to the keys. But instead of slamming them down, he played out a soft chord. "Back when he was alive, Beethoven was demanded by all the elite and rich to play in their city's amphitheaters. But when he did not receive full attention, he would glare at the audience, sometimes leaving during the performance." He then began to play a soft tune, but still talked over the music. "You see, Beethoven was such a brilliant composer," he continued, "Yet he had so much complexities happening to him, some people thought he was outright mad. After many outbursts, it was decreed that Beethoven doesn't have to follow court etiquette by an Archduke; I couldn't be bothered to know the whole story. So here is my question." He ceased playing and turned to face Bruce with wide, demanding eyes, asking, "If Beethoven had all these problems and yet were able to compose many masterpieces, than why can't the public affected similarly produce similar results?"

"Medication, lack of desire, under parole," Bruce listed, "Many reasons really. But just because you act similar to Beethoven, do you consider yourself a genius?"

"No," the other replied, "If I was a genius, I wouldn't be stuck in this situation; but then there is the other side. If I didn't applied for this position, then I would be labeled a nobody. Then another side appears; many nobodies became somebodies and we hate them for it. Take for instance the internet generation of musicians. Many nobodies accessed the internet and were able to figure out how to make their music available to an invisible audience. Most of the music however, could be considered horrible; clichés, similar lyrics and subjects, bad tempo, horrific sounding music, or just things too disturbing for words. On one hand, many persons scream for their heads of sharpened sticks. The other hand, people love them for being separated from what many companies hold. But the same thing is there."

"Mediocrity?" The director asked.

"Yes," the composer answered, "Independent or not mediocrity exists in both worlds, and humans have accepted this. Any chance of bringing something new is lost to the ocean of what the public wants, even if it is the most wonderful thing in the world."

"Where are we going with this exactly?" Bruce asked, and all fell still. John sighed as he stood from the stool, knocking it over as he walked to Bruce.

"Where are we going," he whispered, "Is that to create music that would rattle the heavens, you must not be mortal. That is an incredible problem. Mediocrity has almost swallowed my hands and my mind, despite the many defects. You can fire me if you wish; find a composer that can prove he has kissed the feet of God and painted the sky a different color."

"I'm not going to fire you!" Bruce shouted as he pushed John away, making him trip and fall. Silence filled the air again, before the director coughed nervously and said, "Forgive me, I overreacted a bit. But I'm not going to fire you. Just write the music as best as you could; that's all I'm asking. No need to blast a hole in the wall just because you forgot when the woodwinds perform."

"Right…" John said as he pushed himself into a seated position, "I'll do the best I can. I do have to say, you are above standards."

"How so?" Bruce asked as his hand hovered over the doorknob.

"You're willing to dive into madness and punch its followers in the eye." The Composer explained, "I like a man with guts. I know the scriptwriter will love it too."

"Yeah yeah, I just hope the scriptwriter doesn't throw a typewriter at me." The director joked as he closed the door.

/

To be continued.


	4. Plot, Characters, cha-cha-cha

Sorry it took long; school started up and stuff occurred. Next chapter, fresh from the word processor.

I don't own the characters and I won't benefit either.

/

A few minutes of asking brought Bruce to a metal ladder leading to the roof of the building. "Today is just getting weirder by the minute." He muttered as he climbed each rung, "A writer on the rooftop; it's not even that noisy down there!" Once he pushed the trapdoor open, he climbed out on the roof and took a good look. The city stretched as far as the eye could see, faint sounds of street life heard in the still air. The roof was nearly bare, save for the metal pieces of air conditioning, an antenna, and a small table with accompanying chair and umbrella. Curiosity tugged at his brain as Bruce walked over to the patio furniture. A typewriter rested on the surface, two stacks of paper flanking the machine while a pen rested to the right. He picked up the left stack and began to leaf through it, reading each part carefully.

"Hey, I'm not done!" A voice cried, making him turn back to see a woman crawling out of the trap door. "It's kinda rude to read someone's work before they're finished!" The black-haired woman scolded as she approached him.

"And why is that?" He asked as he set the stack down, "I just thought to see how it was coming along. It is part of the director's job, is it not?"

"Yeah, it is." She admitted as she set a bag down on the table, "I just feel a little embarrassed when people read my work before it's finished. My name is Diana by the way; script writer."

"No last name?" Bruce asked.

"I have one," Diana said, "I just won't give it to you."

"Don't trust me?" Bruce asked.

"No," She answered, "I just think you won't last long in such a situation. Four weeks to get a play off the ground, and you're basically on square one. The atmosphere is just horrible to work with; it's a miracle that all of us didn't kill each other."

"So, is that why you write on the roof?" He asked.

"Yeah," Diana answered, "And I needed a change of scenery. So, since you're so eager for the script, what do you think?"

"It's not bad." Bruce answered, "Still needs a little improvement; there's too many clichés."

"I know," She almost moaned, "This is why I hate writing mysteries; they seem to have more clichés than horror or drama works."

"Yeah," he said, trying to move the conversation along, "It's always the butler, right?" Diana then looked him in the eyes, cold blue filling his vision.

"In reality, it is usually by family." She stated, "You are more than likely to be killed by your brother than a butler. And yet those types of murders within the boundaries of fiction always pin it on a working person; a complete stranger to everyone but the employer."

"Well, it's always for money." Bruce pointed out.

"And yet another cliché," Diana said, "Money and revenge seem to play a part in every mystery game. Rarely the killer does anything just for fun."

"Is it duller when the killer does it for his own amusement?" He asked.

"Possibly," She answered, "Or it's all for character development."

"How so?" He asked.

"When a person first extinguishes a human's life," she explained, "Would he or she feel the guilt, or a sense of glee? Would the feeling go beyond to the points of lust? Who knows?" She turned her head and asked, "Do people usually cheer for the antagonist?"

"No," Bruce answered, "Not usually. The antagonist is the villain; someone or something that stands against human rights for personal gain."

"That is true in the days of black and white." Diana said as she turned to the typewriter, "But now villains are getting more cheering than the heroes. Why is that?"

"Tastes change." He answered, "Heroes are the same types, aren't they?"

"Yes," She answered in a dull tone, "Usually the heroes are upstanding people, or animals. I haven't heard of a story where a demon decides to save the world instead of destroying it."

"But there are stories like that out there." He pointed out.

"But the demon is considered an 'anti-hero', correct?" She asked, "Because of the 'anti-hero' status, we can create heroes that smoke, swear, and look as ugly as sin with a matching attitude. Anti-heroes' are considered more exciting as 'heroes'. So, if 'anti-heroes' and 'villains' are getting more applause than 'heroes', then what does that all mean?"

"Heroes are considered dull." Bruce answered, "Often pictured as people that follow rules, do the right things, and so on."

"Half-right." She answered, "Half of the reason is that heroes have become a little dull; copied traits passed down since the first adventure story that passed the lips of travelers. But the other half is that the human appetite has become a little more vicious."

"You mean how some people enjoy a movie just for violence and explosions?" He asked.

"In a sense," Diana answered, "The majority either became desensitized, or they became hungry for it. Disturbing really, but it couldn't be helped."

"But what about this scenario," Bruce began, "What if a person couldn't watch a video of a massacre, but can watch a graphic horror movie without a problem?"

"Good point." Diana answered, "I'll have to think about that a bit. But I have to write out the script."

"Right, sorry for distracting you." Bruce said as he scratched his head.

"Nah, I needed a chat;" Diana answered with a smile, "It gets a little lonely up here."

"Then why not go back inside?" He asked.

"Someone keeps stealing the script down there." She answered.

/

Later, Bruce returned to his office, sinking into the old chair and gazing at the desk. 'What am I going to do?' he pondered, 'I'm working with nothing.' He picked through the few sheets of paper hoping for answer. "A murder mystery, huh?" he muttered, "No heroes, no props, no music, no costumes, no script…just what was this old director doing?"

A knock at the door made Bruce turn to see Clark peeking through the crack. "Hey," He said as he stepped inside, "Sorry to disturb you, but I got you a coffee."

"Thanks." Bruce said as he accepted the cup, "You got some real characters in this production."

"Well, they can be nice once you get to know them." Clark defended, "But yeah, they have their attributes. I really don't understand why the old director hired them."

"Didn't the old director have any notes or something along those lines?" The director asked.

"I think he did," He answered, "But they're probably inside that filing cabinet. But I doubt it; that thing's too old. I don't think any of us were able to open it." Bruce stood up and approached the mentioned object. The grey cabinet had three drawers, streaks of rust dancing along the metal surface. He grabbed the top handle and gave it a tug; not even an inch was given.

"You weren't kidding." Bruce said, "But notes or no notes, we'll get this this play off the ground. Everyone's already working on it from what I seen. You try and get the actors back; I'll try and figure out the plot."

"Will do." Clark said as he departed, leaving the director alone once more. He sighed as he turned to his desk again, something catching his eye. He pulled a sheet of paper and read the sole sentence on the surface.

"Misery is an absolute truth."

"Yeah right." He said as he crumpled the paper and dropped it into the wastebasket.

/

To be continued...


End file.
